


Sacrifice

by Sherlyjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Cute, Established Relationship, Guilty John, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, No Mary, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Sad, Scars, They need a hug, illusions to torture, most h/c, semi-fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 21:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11540661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlyjohn/pseuds/Sherlyjohn
Summary: John discovers the scars Sherlock received in his two years away.





	Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”  
> ― Kahlil Gibran

The air seemed too thick, the soft huffs of breath the only noise in the silent room, save the occasional passing by of a car or truck. Sherlock eyes stared upward and John was startled to see a great deal of emotion there.

They had not spoken much to one another since he returned. Everything they tried to say felt empty and meaningless. Words failed John in particular. After he had gotten over his initial shock of it all, he had been angry; furious at the detectives lies and betrayal over the past two years. John had shouted himself hoarse, hurling insults and hatred Sherlock’s way, hardly noticing the detective bleeding from his cutting words.

It was only when the city was under attack and they ran throughout London, their breaths matching and adrenaline palpable in their air that John began to feel alive again. He forgave Sherlock in the train car and had shared a quiet moment afterward, their breaths coming out in quiet huffs. Their lips had met and they discovered one another. Feeling seemed to return to John’s insides, alighting what had been numb for two years.

John moved back in to 221b and slowly, their relationship began to resume into its normal… well, it’s new normal, for both the good and the bad.

Sherlock was not the same man John knew two years previous. His demeanour remained the same illusive mask he always wore, but there seemed to be cracks in it, ones that would show the true form underneath. But John supposed he was not the same either. He was hesitant to leave the detective alone for too long and his hands trembled when they were apart. The battlefield of his life with Sherlock gave him clarity and when that was gone, John tore himself apart. Now that his partner had come back from the dead, he realised he had never finished fighting Sherlock’s wars.

They sat in silence for the better part of the evening, John sipping his tea and electing to peer into the soft steam rise from his mug instead of watching his flatmate. Sherlock sat on the couch, his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes fixed on a point John could not see.

The sun sunk low over the London streets, casting monstrous shadows across the pavement and painting their living room in orange light. John watched the dust particles dance around Sherlock in a halo for a moment before he stood.

Sherlock snapped out of his revere and his gaze met John’s.

Their eyes lingered for a moment, Sherlock dropped his gaze first.

“It’s getting late.” John finally uttered, the silence too oppressive to hold for any longer, “We should go to bed, maybe get an early start tomorrow.” He suggested, holding out his hand.

Sherlock hesitated, looking at John’s outstretched hand, transfixed. He took it silently and allowed John to pull him to his feet. They went down the hall to Sherlock’s room and John went to get changed in the bathroom. Sherlock was already in his night clothes when John emerged and together, silently, they climbed into bed. John turned out the lamp and the streetlight from outside shone dimly into the room, emanating a soft glow over the bed and cascading over the side of Sherlock’s face.

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s chest, leaning in to kiss him softly on the cheek. Sherlock turned his face to John and captured his lips. His hand slid into Sherlock’s hair, entangling in the raven curls. They remained encircled in each other’s arms until John’s hand snaked lower, sliding under Sherlock’s shirt and caressing the skin there. He felt Sherlock tense just as the pads of his fingertips skated over a raised scar on his side.

John took a sharp breath and Sherlock froze. His eyes met John’s in the dim light and John saw horror there, and something akin to disgust.

_ The cracks in the mask are expanding. _

Sherlock gripped John’s wrist tightly and pulled him away from his skin. Both men remained still, waiting for one another to make the first move. John kept his gaze firmly on Sherlock’s trying to discern the tide of emotions swimming there.

Sherlock’s crystalline gaze darted downward, leaving John to study his face and posture.

Words failed the detective, as though he was unable to conjure any explanation from the lips that usually created lies and great facilities of deductions and knowledge.

_ What will happen to the great Sherlock Holmes when words, his greatest weapon, fail? _

Sherlock met John’s gaze again, his eyes now desperate and searching, begging for understanding. John nodded to him, accenting that he needn’t speak.

Tentatively, Sherlock reached out a hand and wrapped his slender fingers around John’s wrist once more, sitting up slowly, he pulled off his own shirt with his free hand. John’s eyes raked Sherlock’s marred skin in the soft glow of the streetlight. He kept his face schooled while his heart beat violently in his chest.

Laid out before him was Sherlock’s sacrifice, it was tangible, crisscrossing his chest, faded bruises colouring his pale skin in ugly blotches.

Without speaking, Sherlock took John’s wrist and pulled it toward his chest, placing it along the first scar, a faded, pale thing on his upper left shoulder, nearly identical to John’s. Clearly a bullet wound, where he was nicked. Clinically, John knew it was an old scar; probably at least a year and a half old, maybe longer. John could not tear his eyes away as Sherlock moved John’s hand downward, moving around to his side, to the cut John had brushed earlier. This one was deep and John noted the size to likely be a knife wound, yet still the scar bore signs of age, the skin irritated, but treated well and quickly, leaving a far smaller scar than it could have been; John counted it as a small victory.

The detective maintained eye-contact with the doctor as he moved his hands so John’s fingertips traced a deep cut running from his sharp collarbone to the breastbone. John tracked his fingers over it, noticing that this one needed stitches and were done poorly, causing the scar to be raised and puckered.

_ Did you sew yourself back together again, Sherlock? Trying to keep yourself together while I blamed you for falling apart? _

He moved John’s hand downward, to a scar below his navel. It ran horizontally for three inches, as though someone were trying to open him up, in an attempt to spill out his organs. This one was ferociously deep, he perhaps had removed the stitches a few days prior to his return.

Nausea gathered in his throat but still John didn’t speak. The silence spoke for them and it was more honest than either of them could have been.

Sherlock moved John’s hand now to his protruding ribs, to the angry blotches of bruised skin, and John felt tenderly, finding broken ribs, still healing and discoloured skin where fist had met his pale chest.

Sherlock, now turned his back on John, still gripping his wrist and directing his hand to touch his back. John could not hold back his gasp now as he saw his back, where long slash marks were visible, wounds that were so new, some hadn’t even lost its dark bruised texture. His pale skin was coloured by ugly bruises, some yellowing. John could practically hear the instruments of torture hitting Sherlock’s bare skin, ripping and tearing him apart. John closed his eyes for a moment, choking back tears. He turned Sherlock back around to face him, their eyes met in the half light, Sherlock’s shone over bright.

John opened his mouth to speak, to apologise for his ignorance, but Sherlock pressed a long finger to John’s lips, stopping all speech. He shook his head and leaned forward, replacing his finger with his lips,.

Sherlock’s lips moved to hover an inch between them.

“I did it for you and I would do it a thousand times over if it meant you stayed safe.”

John stared into Sherlock’s eyes and a mournful smile tugged at his lips, “I love you too.”

They embraced once more.

John ran his hands over Sherlock’s scars, softly and carefully mapping out his magnificent body, memorising each piece of damaged skin; the symbol of Sherlock’s love for John.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece I wrote as a filler for my long Sherlock fanfic that I am still working on. Hope you enjoyed it!


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